Detectives on a Spaceship
by rubycue
Summary: When a spaceship rescues John from a deserted planet, he has no idea he has gotten caught up in the biggest case the only consulting detective in the universe has faced yet. Sherlock is intrigued by the case the new arrival presents - but is that the only thing that's got him so thrilled?
1. Chapter 1

**Also available on archiveofourown!**

Well, John thought, staring at the opposite wall of what he supposed was a waiting room (going by the fact that he'd been sitting there for half an hour), it could have been worse. Not by much, but he'd take what he could get. He absently rubbed at the dried blood on his hands and sighed.

…

_The sounds of the battle were filling his ears and making it hard to think. The air was thick with the smell of guns and blood and sweat, and he tried to drag the frail body of his comrade away from it. There was an eerie halo around the battlefield, but its surroundings were dark, the sun having set hours ago. John spared a thought for how long the days were on this remote rock floating in space, but he couldn't remember. His hands under the injured soldier's arms, he dragged the body into a cave that was really more of an overhang of rock. It would have to do. He didn't have the strength to get much further away, and at least there was a barrier between them and the battle. He took a deep breath and looked at his patient. His eyes were shut and his face was pale with sweat. The bullet wound in his shoulder was oozing blood, and, as John had already checked, there was no exit wound. The bullet was still inside – not a particularly good sign, but also not his main worry at the moment. John turned to look at the leg. The soldier had been unlucky enough to receive damage to his femoral artery, and the emergency tourniquet John had put over it had been the right measure to take, but it was by no means enough. The man needed to be brought to a hospital, or at least to one of their ships. John sat up, the relentless noise not letting him concentrate - and then, suddenly, there was no noise at all._

_When he came to, the sun was rising and his ears were ringing. He sat up with a groan and blinked a few times to get used to the brightness. Then he froze. His former patient lay dead before him, a ghastly sight in the early morning light. His eyes weren't completely closed, and his half-lidded, empty stare was focused on nothing. John swallowed and looked away. He'd seen this before, no need to panic. He routinely checked for a pulse, but the temperature of the body confirmed that he'd died a while ago._

_He took a few moments to gather himself. There had obviously been an explosion, going by the slight ringing in his ears and his loss of consciousness. _

_There was nothing for it, he'd have to take a look at the battlefield._

_Standing up, he looked over the wall of rock. What he saw felt like a punch to the gut. There was nothing there but death._

_His search hadn't turned up a single living thing in the sea of destruction the explosion had caused, and, in fact, not even a working spaceship, although they had been standing quite a distance away. Had there been more than one explosion? The whole thing was so clearly a set-up, a trap, that it hurt John to think his comrades had paid with their lives for falling for it. What had they thought their enemy was protecting, here on this bare slab of land without as much as a tree on it? _

_That these... aliens... had sacrificed their own people for this made his stomach harden in bitterness._

_He got his communicator out. Not much sense in him dying here as well – although there was still every chance of that happening. This wasn't exactly the most frequented area of this galaxy, and he'd be very lucky if a spaceship came into reach of his weak signal and decided to stop for him too. _

_…_

But a spaceship had picked up his signal, and it had come to rescue him, although he had yet to see a crew member. All he had so far was a message on his communicator that said, "Rolling down the stairs. Sending someone to pick you up from there."

He'd been waiting for half an hour now.

…

The doors opened automatically. Frustrating. Sherlock was longing to slam a door, a nice, old-fashioned one that produced a satisfying bang. Beyond annoyed, he called out a "Bored!" to the bridge of the Tethys.

Lestrade turned around in the Captain's seat to look at him. "You do know you invited yourself along? If it's so boring, why did you come?"

"I was expecting the route to be a different one," Sherlock answered distractedly, looking for a chair to dramatically slouch on. "Clearly the person who planned this one is an idiot. Particularly in light of the last two days."

Anderson's offended "Hey!" followed as expected. Still not very gratifying.

Then Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Ah, Stamford!" he said jovially. "Leave."

Stamford looked up at him incredulously. "Why?"

"Or at least stand up," Sherlock amended generously.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed. "Mike isn't getting up just so you can complain from a more comfortable position!"

"No one needs a doctor on the bridge of a spaceship," Sherlock said with a flick of the wrist.

"At least he's a member of the crew!" Anderson snarled.

"You yourself deliver daily proof that membership in this crew is in no way a means by which to determine the competence of someone. I could do both Mike's job and yours much better than either of you."

Lestrade scoffed. "Oh come on, Sherlock. You're many things, but you're not a doctor."

Sherlock was about to retort that yes, he was a very capable physician, albeit without any experience, much less any sort of official qualification, when Donovan spoke up.

"Captain, we've got an incoming emergency signal."

Lestrade's eyebrows rose. "That's a surprise. Didn't think there was another living thing around within a day's distance. Details?"

"It's coming from planet number M27 of the system, about forty minutes away. Device is a standard HAF communicator, older model."

Sherlock moved over to her and leaned over the screen. "Call up the message," he ordered.

She did and said, "It's a set message, contains name and position, time it was sent et cetera."

Lestrade considered this for a moment. "Read it out," he said.

"You can't possibly be considering picking them up!" Anderson spluttered.

"Of course I am. At least have to check who it is before we leave them here to die."

"And also this is a rather interesting development," Sherlock added. "Quite promising."

With a glare at Sherlock, Sally read, "John Watson, armed medical forces-"

"John Watson!" Stamford exclaimed. "I trained with a John Watson on board Bart's! Medical forces, you say? That must be him. Now that's a surprise!"

Sherlock leaned back with a smirk. "Oh really? So tell us, Mike," he drawled, looking at Anderson. "Is John Watson worth saving?"

"Aye, finest lad I ever met."

Lestrade shrugged. "Okay then! Sally, what can you tell me about the planet?"

"Computer says it's not populated. Barely any plants."

"Sherlock, could you just check the military reports for action there?"

Anderson's head snapped up. "But it's my-"

Sherlock stopped him before he could embarrass himself even more. "You know as well as I do that I'm much faster at this. The division was originally set to go to Lunar 7 of this system, but there was a last minute change of plan. Apparently it was discovered that the enemy troops had been reposted to M27 and it was concluded that they must have been protecting something there. Foolish, of course, and quite suspicious. It was obviously a trap, but why did they fall for it? And why did the enemy sacrifice one of their own division just to do a little bit of damage to the much bigger human troops?"

The crew sighed in unison.

…

They proceeded to answer the message and land the ship, opening one of the smaller side entrances to let their guest into a waiting room.

Sherlock was pacing up and down agitatedly, his hands pressed together under his chin. Finally something was happening. A mystery, thrilling despite its military setting. A single surviving victim, all his to dissect.

Why M27? Why why why why.

Lestrade cut into his frantic thought process. "Anderson, he's in. Go get him here."

"Anderson? You cannot be serious. Do you realise the value of observing a victim directly after the traumatic event? The first contact with the outside world?"

Lestrade gave him a hard look. "I realise he must be shocked, and that means you of all people shouldn't be the one to see him first."

"Oh, and Anderson's mug is less frightening? At least my eyes aren't bottomless black holes of stupidity!"

Anderson gave him the finger and exited the room. Sherlock collapsed onto the newly deserted chair with a longsuffering sigh.

They waited for fifteen minutes, looking at each other questioningly when Anderson didn't return then. Frowning, Lestrade decided to use the intercom.

"What the heck are you doing?"

"He isn't here," Anderson snarled, perfectly audible for everyone on the bridge.

"Of course he's there. The room's shown as occupied!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Let me guess. You're at Entry 8."

"Of course I fucking am!"

"Well, then I regret to inform you that the entry we opened is Entry 6, which, as luck would have it, is on the other side of the ship." With that, Sherlock shut off the intercom (to an irritated "Hey!" from Lestrade), and said, "Stamford, come with me. Maybe the presence of someone he knows can balance out my rudeness."

"That's one way of calling it," Lestrade told his retreating back, at the same time reasoning that it was all fine since Sherlock was actually going to find the room and not let John Watson wait until he starved.

…

Stamford scrambled to keep up with his long steps, but Sherlock barely spared him a glance. Time to take a look at this piece of live evidence.

…

John was absentmindedly wondering what the point of letting him wait was, or if the crew were just busy. Maybe they'd forgot all about him. He looked out of the glass wall of the room into the hallway, picking at a small scratch on the back of his hand.

There was the sound of footsteps, and then two people rounded the corner. John's eye was immediately drawn to the first man. Tall, dark haired, purposefully striding down the corridor, oddly shaped face dominated by eyes that were glinting with intent.

John blinked and quickly looked at the second man. For a moment he was stunned by how two people could be that different, for Stamford was neither as tall nor as graceful as the other man. Then it registered that it was Stamford, and he jumped to his feet, staring at his friend in disbelief.

"Mike!" he exclaimed when the two men had reached the room. The tall man took out a key and opened the door – but his eyes never left John, he noted absently.

Mike stepped towards him and shook his hand enthusiastically. "John! I couldn't believe it when we picked up your signal!"

John grinned and shrugged. "I didn't think anyone would pick up my signal, much less someone I know."

The man smirked. "Very true. There's no reason for anyone to take this route."

Mike smiled. "Sorry, forgot to introduce you. Sherlock, this is John Watson. John, this is Sherlock Holmes. He's our resident genius."

John proffered his hand with a grin. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, but took it.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please."

They looked at each other for a moment before John broke away, intending to talk to Stamford.

"It's not your fault he died."

John's head snapped back to Sherlock. "What are you talking about?"

"That soldier. He wouldn't have survived even if you had stayed conscious after the explosion. He'd already lost so much blood by the time you were able to apply the tourniquet that he'd either have died by the time he got to a hospital or had a necrotic leg, which, in his state, would have killed him just as effectively."

John stared into space for a moment.

"Ah, there he goes again..." Stamford murmured, shaking his head at Sherlock but smiling fondly.

"How could you possibly know all that?" John asked, frowning and looking up at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock affected being bored. "Oh, easily. The amount of blood around your elbows signs toward a profusely bleeding wound. There's a little less blood on your hands, most likely because you've already rubbed some of it off. However, there are lines in the blood that tell me you've used a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. The most likely place for such a wound is the thigh. As I said before, your elbows are bloody. Therefore he must have been bleeding for quite a while. You couldn't possibly have saved him."

John opened his mouth, closed it. "How...?"

"I observe."

John licked his lips and looked to the side. "That's. That's amazing."

"It is?"

"Oh yes, absolutely. Never seen anything like it."

Sherlock's eyebrows twitched, torn between wide-eyes surprise and uncomprehending frown. "That's not what people usually say."

"Why, what do they say?"

"Piss off."

John laughed, startled. Sherlock studied him for a moment, then grinned back at him.

Mike looked back and forth between them, shaking his head. "Come on, you two. We've got to get John to Captain Lestrade."

…

The ship was huge. John had been able to tell as much from outside, but actually being inside it was another thing entirely. They walked down an endless corridor to a lift the size of his parents' living room. While they were going up, John realised that now that he was out of danger, the reality of what had happened was starting to set in. He was physically all right, nothing beyond a few scratches here and there, and he could do with a shower, but that was it. The thought that he was the only surviving victim of a major explosion on a deserted planet, though, that all his comrades were dead, made him feel nauseated in a way that had nothing to do with being sick. His very core felt so queasy that it made his whole body weak, yet left his knees strong enough to keep him upright. He thought maybe he'd get a fever, or stumble and fall, and he worried how he was ever going to get rid of that feeling-

"If you aren't going to structure your thoughts at all, then you might as well stop thinking."

John's head snapped up. Sherlock wasn't looking at him, his eyes focused on nothing in particular but definitely trained on the shut door in front of him.

He's feigning nonchalance, John realised. "You're feigning nonchalance," he found himself saying.

Although he hadn't been moving, Sherlock visibly stopped, froze. After taking a moment to get over his surprise, he spoke. "And on what observations do you base this theory?"

John shrugged. "Just a guess."

Sherlock scoffed. "No one just guesses something like that."

John licked his lips. "Okay. It's your posture. Your eyes. You're trying way too hard to look like you're bored to actually be bored."

Sherlock smirked. "That wasn't half bad! Of course, it also wasn't good, not scientific at all and with an incorrect deduction as a result, but certainly better than ninety percent of this ship's occupants."

John gave a deep sigh and turned back to the door. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"You should. It's highly improbable you'll ever hear anything like that from me again," Sherlock announced cheerfully.

Mike, standing on Sherlock's other side, chuckled before he could stop himself, and it was then that John remembered there were actually three people in the lift.


	2. Chapter 2

"—ever get here."

"At least Mike's with them."

"As if he could stop—"

The entry to the bridge opened and John could hear the last few seconds of a discussion before it was cut off, the participants noticing their arrival.

John looked around. Every chair in the room was occupied, and it would have looked as if the crew were going about their work with admirable concentration, if not for the fact that their heads were turned away from the screens and their eyes fixed on John.

"Er, hi," he said, stopping just barely into the room.

Next to him, Sherlock tsked and crossed his arms. "Don't bother with them, they're idiots."

"Oh, wonderful! First thing you do when you enter a room, insult everyone in it!" one of the crew members exclaimed.

"Don't be jealous, Anderson, I enjoy it most when you're present."

"One more word from either of you and you're leaving this bridge," the captain interjected, ending that conversation and making Sherlock pout and Anderson glare. Then he stood up and approached John, hand extended. "I'm Captain Lestrade. Welcome on board."

John shook it. "John Watson, nice to meet you."

"We're flying to the Central Administration. I hope that's alright with you, because we certainly won't be making any more unscheduled stops!"

John laughed. "I'm glad you're taking me along at all."

"You're an old mate of Mike's," Lestrade said, indicating him with a tilt of his head. "He's our best doctor, I need to stay on his good side."

A quick round of introductions followed – rather uselessly, as John forgot almost every name a minute after hearing it. The only ones he did remember except Lestrade were Anderson and Donovan, who, from the way they glared at him, seemed to be Sherlock's personal evil twins of the ship. Although Donovan didn't seem to quite reach Anderson's level.

"Okay then," Lestrade said. "I'm sure you know we'll need a blood sample from you to prove you're not a slimy green alien creature in disguise—"

"I'll do that," Sherlock interrupted.

Donovan huffed. "Brilliant idea. Let the alien test him on whether he's an alien."

"Nobody on board this ship is an alien. They wouldn't have been let on board," Lestrade said.

"As if he couldn't have faked it!"

Lestrade ruffled his hair with one hand, the other on his hip. He was the picture of exasperation. "Dr. Watson, are you okay with Sherlock doing the test?"

John shrugged. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Good then. Send a message when you're done, I'll have someone show you to your cabin."

And before John could say a word in response, Sherlock turned and strode out the door. 

…

"She isn't nice either."

"What?" John asked, struggling to keep up with Sherlock as they walked down a long corridor.

"Donovan. On the bridge. You were thinking she's nicer than Anderson. She's not. Her symmetrical features and longer hair make it seem that way, that's all."

"I didn't even say anything."

Sherlock spared him a sidelong glance. "We've been over this, haven't we? I observe things. You didn't have to say it for me to know it."

John frowned at Sherlock, and because of that nearly missed the left-hand turn they took. "So basically, you can tell what I'm thinking at any given moment?"

"That's a ridiculous assumption. The situation on the bridge was ideal for observing your reactions. A foreign environment, too many strangers to keep your first reactions completely hidden. Add to that your obvious exhaustion, which you might not be feeling yet, but is sure to hit you within the next hour. So let us hurry."

…

***

As soon as John stepped foot inside Sherlock's cabin, he realised the term was hardly fitting. It looked more like a loft; living area, kitchen, bedroom, and a laboratory divided by the room's shape and furnishing rather than by walls. All in all, the place was a curious mix between meticulously tidy and hopelessly cluttered.

"This is rather spacious for a spaceship cabin," John settled on saying, not hiding how impressed he was. "How did you come by it?"

Sherlock huffed. "Don't even ask." He headed directly for the lab, patting the backrest of the chair standing there. "Come on, I need your blood."

John did so, wondering if he shouldn't have hesitated a bit. "You know what you're doing, right?"

Sherlock sent him a look from where he was rummaging in one of the drawers.

"I mean are you a medical professional?"

"What? Of course I'm not, how mind-numbingly boring would that be." His lips twitched. "But you can be sure I know what I'm doing as well as if I were one."

John tried not to grin. "Not better?"

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then smirked slowly. "Much better."

"Didn't want to brag, that it?" John asked, taking his muddy jacket off and rolling up the arm of his shirt.

Sherlock turned toward John and gripped the arm with his left hand. He leaned forward, suddenly so close that John could almost feel his breath on his ear. "I don't need to," he said in a low rumble, and inserted the needle.

…

***

John had been watching Sherlock inspect his blood through the microscope for the last few minutes and was considering asking whether something was wrong, when Sherlock straightened and sighed.

"Well, that was terrifically boring."

John raised his eyebrows. "I'm not an alien, then?"

Sherlock gave him a look. "No. I'll send Lestrade a message now, so you can get some rest in your cabin."

Lestrade sent Mike to pick John up, which John appreciated. They were once again walking along an absurdly long corridor when Mike asked, "So what took you so long in there?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I wouldn't have thought the whole thing would take more than five minutes. It's just taking the blood sample, the automatic test only takes thirty seconds or so."

John frowned. "That is... I mean, he probably just took his time, I guess."

Mike laughed. "Okay then. Somehow I thought he'd been getting up to who knows what again and involved you in it."

"That does sound like Sherlock," John agreed.

Their path led them further and further into the ship, and John had a feeling they were close to the engines when they finally arrived at the cabin. The cabin turned out to be tiny, the lighting rather dim, and furnished with nothing more than a bed and a small cupboard. There was a slight roaring sound – they were indeed close to the engines. Fantastic.

"Charming," he mumbled.

"Sorry, mate," Mike said, laying a hand on his shoulder. "There should be pyjamas and a change of clothes for tomorrow in the cupboard. You should probably go to the uniform store tomorrow anyway."

John sighed.

"There's a bathroom next door that should contain the essentials at least. If you're hungry, the canteen is exactly one floor below the bridge."

"Thanks, Mike. I think I'll just take a quick shower and go to bed."

Mike gave him a sympathetic smile. "You do that. I'm sure we'll find time to catch up tomorrow, if you want to."

Once John had had his shower and was lying in bed, it was as if all energy had left his body. His mind blessedly blank, he fell asleep.

Halfway through the night, his body decided that it had had enough rest – or at least enough not to keep his mind from summoning up pictures of the day's more gruesome events. He awoke gasping and drenched in sweat.

He wasted five minutes on trying to go back to sleep, then checked his communicator and saw that it was just past four a.m. for him and seven aboard the ship. After showering again and changing into the ill-fitting blue pullover and jeans from the cupboard, there was nothing to do but to have breakfast. John was glad to leave the tiny room, shuddering at the thought that he'd be staying in there for a few weeks at least as they were quite a bit away from the Central Administration. He'd just try to keep himself together until then and hope for a quick new deployment.

He easily found the canteen, where his eyes immediately focused on the coffee machine installed in the far wall of the room. A glance at the platter of fresh croissants next to it and John was set on having a nice French breakfast. He let the machine fill his cup with a café au lait and then, the cup in one hand, a plate with a croissant in the other, turned to search the room for the best spot to enjoy it.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise that Sherlock had already found that spot and was watching him from it. When John raised his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth quirked up and he inclined his head to the empty chair opposite him. John huffed out a breath, walked over and sat down.

"Morning."

"Good morning, John," Sherlock said, closing the file he had lying in front of him. He put his elbows on the table and folded his hands underneath his chin, watching John.

John tried a bit of coffee, but it was too hot to drink yet. After a moment, he sighed and asked, "What is it?"

"Did you sleep well?"

John leaned back in his chair and regarded Sherlock with a raised eyebrow. "What do you deduce?"

"You slept well enough for a few hours, then you were awoken by a nightmare."

John smirked. "Spot on." He dunked his croissant into his coffee, remembering his mother telling him that this was how the French did it.

Sherlock let his hands fall to the table and watched John cover himself in crumbs and drops of coffee. "You know," he said, sounding for all the world like he was contemplating the matter he was about to address right at that very moment. As if he didn't know what he was doing. "Tonight you were tired from the day's events, which led to you being able to catch a few hours of restful sleep."

John shrugged and mumbled, "I guess so," through a mouthful of croissant.

"If you would rather not sleep alone in a tiny chamber, I've got a spare bed you'd be more than welcome to use."

John looked up, startled. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. John looked away.

"Thank you. I'll... think about it," he said, hiding his surprise behind his cup of too bitter coffee.

…

***

And he did think about it. He knew it wasn't exactly optimal to be alone after what he'd witnessed, and he knew with a sureness born from experience that the nightmares would continue. At the very least Sherlock would probably wake him up if he started screaming too loudly. John was a bit hesitant to take him up on his offer because even after years in the army rooming with a virtual stranger was just that – strange. And he feared he'd cause Sherlock quite a few inconveniences, which was another thing he liked to avoid.

After breakfast, he went to get some more clothes (this time in his actual size and designed in a way that didn't make them look like they'd been found in an abandoned school from the last century). Then Lestrade thoughtfully had a laptop brought to him so that he could write his report on yesterday's events, which, due to being practised at it and wanting to get it over with as quickly as possible, he wrote immediately, so that at about 2 p.m. (ship time), he found himself at loose ends.

Then he found himself knocking on Sherlock's door.

Sherlock opened the door with a frown which quickly transformed into a pleased smile. "Ah, John! How good of you to arrive at such an opportune moment. Come in!"


	3. Chapter 3

Surprised, John entered the cabin. The room was mostly the same as yesterday, except that in the middle of the room a shelf lay on its side, empty. John thought for a moment but couldn't make any sense of it, so he looked up at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock was fixing him with a slightly maniacal grin that would have scared a lesser man. "You are 5'7'' and in prime physical condition – perfect for what I'm planning."

"I'm 5'8''," John grumbled. After receiving a look that said 'Oh really?' much more eloquently than words ever could have, he gave in. "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to take no more than two yards of run-up and jump or climb over the shelf without your trousers touching it."

John frowned. "Dare I ask why?"

"A cold case I was about to solve before we picked you up. The victim was found poisoned in the kitchen of his ex-girlfriend's house. However, that's not where the poisoning likely occurred. That was in an alleyway, separated from the next street by a relatively low fence with iron spikes on it. There were traces of the victims DNA as well as signs of a struggle. The question is, was he able to leave the alley by himself and reach the closest safe place he could think of, which just happened to be his ex-girlfriend's house, or are we dealing with an extremely stupid murderer who dragged the man to the house in order to frame the girlfriend for the murder? If you can't manage to jump over this shelf, the man won't have managed to cross the fence in his state without it leaving traces on both the fence and his trousers."

There was a moment of silence. "Okay…" John said slowly. "And why exactly is it your job to figure this out? You don't work for the police, do you?"

Sherlock laughed and leaned against the wall, a spot from which he'd be able to supervise John's efforts without trouble. It was a bit presumptuous, but John didn't tell him off for it. "They would only hold me back. I'm a consulting detective, the only one in the universe."

"What does that mean?"

"I help the police when they're out of their depth, which is-"

"-always," John finished, smiling. "I can imagine you'd think so. But why are you on board a ship solving cold cases?"

With a huff, Sherlock let his head fall back against the wall. "Because I'm bored. I'm on this ship to get to the Central Administration, where all the most interesting crimes happen, but it takes so long to get there, and although I've been collecting tissue samples whenever we made a stop, it isn't enough to keep me busy in the long run. So, cold cases it is."

"Sounds tragic," John said, stepping closer to the shelf, trying to gauge whether he'd make it across.

"Yes, but now you are here, along with a fresh case to solve. I just want this one finished, then you're going to tell me everything you know about yesterday's events."

John shuddered. It seemed strange to think that only a day had passed. He hadn't been with that group for long, but to think that they were all dead was sickening. He had survived by luck alone.

Sherlock groaned. "Snap out of it and get on with what you're meant to be doing."

John considered the shelf for another moment. "What if I fall on my face? This is rather high."

Sherlock pushed himself off the wall and positioned himself directly next to the shelf, his hands hovering in mid-air. "Now I can catch you if you fall. Happy?"

John snorted a laugh. "Very." He took a deep breath and stood two yards away from the shelf. "Alright then…"

He almost made it, but the corner of his rather clunky boot caught on the edge of the shelf and he toppled forward gracelessly. He would have faceplanted onto the floor, too, if not for his precautions. His heart lurched in his chest nonetheless, and he was grateful for Sherlock's arm across his chest, steadying him.

"I should have said no," John mused breathlessly, straightening his posture. Sherlock's arm fell to his side, leaving John's chest feeling colder than before.

His face looking slightly pinched, Sherlock said, "At least now we know it was the brother who killed him. Don't you think that was worth it?"

John raised an eyebrow. "Depends. How cold exactly is that case?"

Sherlock walked over to the sofa and flopped down onto it. "Seventy years…" he admitted.

That startled a laugh out of John. Sherlock buried his face in the armrest. "I was bored, what was I supposed to do?" he mumbled into it.

John sat down on the other end of the sofa, somehow now in a really good mood. Sherlock turned his head to look at him. "Now, however, we need to get to work on solving your case. There are several open questions."

John nodded, turning serious. "The whole thing was such an obvious set-up. M27 is neutral territory, a place neither party is allowed to set foot on, but nobody would ever want to either. There's literally nothing there. And yet when we received news of the enemy troops having moved there, we were immediately sent to confront them. They can't have debated the issue for very long, or tried any diplomatic methods…"

Sherlock hmmed in agreement. "And then there's the fact that they left you alive when everything else was completely destroyed. Even the ships – it seems strange that one person should get away by coincidence."

John's eyebrows drew together. "What are you saying?"

Sherlock bit his lower lip and sat up. "They must have planned it. They must have waited until one man had gotten away far enough to be safe."

"But to what end?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know. I feel like I'm missing something obvious. Damn, I hate that feeling," he said, his hands ruffling through his hair.

John let his head fall back and closed his eyes. "This seems like something big."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "And we're going to find out what it is." The joy in his voice was palpable.

…

John spent the afternoon exploring Sherlock's cabin, browsing his collection of ancient books and even opening the fridge that contained more body parts than he liked to think about. Sherlock, meanwhile, didn't move from the sofa and either kept his eyes closed in what John assumed was an attempt to solve the case rather than take a nap, or watched John move about the room. John didn't mind and made comments whenever something caught his attention. As Sherlock didn't ask him to stop, he assumed that was okay. Eventually, though, he decided to make a quick detour to the canteen and then retreat to his cabin to make an attempt at sleep.

As it was time for supper, he was unsurprised to find that Captain Lestrade was already there, along with Sally Donovan. John quickly got his meal, opting for grilled aubergine and feta (which, frankly, smelled divine after what they'd gotten in the army). Lestrade waved him over and he sat down at their table.

"John, it's good to see you! What have you been up to all day?" Lestrade said.

John smiled. "I wrote my report this morning, as I'm sure you know, and then I spent the afternoon with Sherlock."

Sally, currently in the process of cutting her steak, raised her eyebrows. "Why are you in such a good mood, then?"

John gave her a slightly confused look. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Oh, I don't know," she answered sarcastically. "Maybe because he's rude, thinks everyone but him is stupid, and has his cabin packed with things that look like they could have been in a horror movie? He's also got no respect for authorities and other people who actually have a real job."

John frowned and Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock can be... a little difficult from time to time," the Captain said. Sally snorted.

"Yeah," John said, starting to eat. "He said so himself. He's just been so nice to me that it seems hard to believe." He paused. "Although he is rather direct, I'll give you that."

"Doesn't hold back, that one," Lestrade agreed. "So, how do you like our ship? Is your cabin alright?"

"The ship's great. It's been a long time since I've been on one this big. The cabin's fine, too. I'm just very grateful you picked me up at all," John said honestly.

"I just wish we could have given you a better cabin. It must be really noisy down there, what with the engines so close."

Sally nodded. "I slept there once. It was hell."

"Don't worry about that. If it gets too bad, I can always move in with Sherlock," John said.

"SHERLOCK?" they both exclaimed at the same time.

"Um, yes. He told me I could if I had trouble sleeping down there." John carefully refrained from mentioning his nightmare, not wanting to worry them or make him go to a psychologist.

"That's... unexpected," Lestrade said.

"He's really trying to befriend you. I don't think I've ever seen him do that," Sally wondered. Then her expression hardened. "John, I'm not trying to make you sleep near the engine for any longer than necessary, but please. Don't trust Sherlock Holmes. He's not like a normal person, he is incredibly emotionally stunted, and I still think there's every chance he might be half alien."

"Oh Sally, please..." Lestrade groaned. "I know you don't like him, but you can't say something like that."

Although he preferred to form his own opinion and thought that the alien comment at the very least was rot, he tried to be polite and said, "Thanks, I'll keep it in mind."

During the course of the meal, John's thoughts wandered. Even for a person with a normal level of sociability, it would have been a bit much to ask a stranger to room with them. Sherlock, however, seemed to genuinely like him, and, as that must have been a rare occurrence, decided to take the opportunity. John already knew he himself would like sleeping in a more spacious room with someone else present better, but he had thought he would be imposing himself on a stranger. Now it seemed Sherlock wouldn't have offered if he hadn't honestly wanted to.

John remembered Sherlock staring at him that afternoon and he felt a hot flush creep up his neck. He quickly took a drink of ice tea.

"So," Lestrade said, pushing his empty plate away from him. "Any plans for tonight?"

"No," John said. "I'm still rather tired, so I'll just go to my cabin and try to sleep."

"Well, if you're up for anything tomorrow, we're going to the pub," Sally told him. "Why don't you come along?"

"Thank you, I think I will," John said, getting up. "When are you meeting?"

"Sometime after supper. Probably around eight?" Sally estimated.

"I'll meet you here, then." John smiled and made his goodbyes. He really had gotten very little sleep.

He went down a long corridor and then intended to take a right-hand turn, only to find that the automatic door separating the two corridors was closed. He frowned and pushed the button that was supposed to open it, but nothing happened.

No matter, he could just take a different elevator now and walk in the right direction when he was on the level of his cabin. So he took a turn to the left instead of the right and entered the next elevator that presented itself. He pressed the button for level three – almost all the way down, regrettably. He breathed a sigh of relief when the elevator set into motion. At least there wasn't a blackout or some kind of incident he should worry about.

His relief proved to be short-lived and quickly turned into confusion as the floor numbers started rising instead of falling. And they kept rising. As a matter of fact, they rose and rose until John had reached the top floor.

When the door opened, John stepped outside and found himself looking down a long corridor that, as far as he could tell, didn't have any branch-offs. Thinking that he didn't really have much of a choice, he walked down the corridor to the end, where a door opened automatically upon his approach.

The room clearly was more of an antechamber than anything else. It was entirely white and completely bare, but at the other end there was another door, guarded by a woman of about thirty years whose gaze rested firmly on an expensive-looking communicator she held in her hands.

"John Watson?" she said, but didn't wait for an affirmation. "You're expected."

"By whom?" he asked reflexively. As expected, she didn't answer, instead moving to the side and pushing a button to open the door. This was going to be interesting.


	4. Chapter 4

What John saw when he entered the room was nothing like what he'd expected. For one thing, it was comparatively small, about half the size of Sherlock's (admittedly huge) cabin. In a corner there was a door, and John wondered if maybe there had been some more doors hidden in the wall of the corridor.

That, however, was far from the most striking feature of the room. John felt like he had stepped into an extravagant red cocoon in vermilion velvet, a material in which both the floor and the walls were covered. It was a drastic change from the usual light colours of the spaceship, where the corridors were pretty much completely white and the canteen and bridge weren't much different either. The one thing that kept the arrangement from becoming too oppressing was the yellow dots arranged in neat order on the velvet. To the left, between two snakeskin commodes that carried expensive-looking porcelain figures, stood a chaise longue, velveteen as well, with a few pillows on it that were red with golden decor. The right side, by comparison, was fairly unremarkable. The space that wasn't being taken up by the door was used for shelves and cupboards made from dark woods and laden with curiosities that must have been collected on the owner's extensive travels, or else bought for astronomical sums of money.

John stepped forward, towards the striped green settee standing forlornly in the centre of the room, and put his hands on its backrest, letting his gaze come to rest on the far side of the room. Instead of a wall there was a giant window, giving view to the darkness beyond and doing nothing to dispel the feeling of constriction. In the middle, almost swallowed by the black void, stood an odd-looking couch, again vermilion-clad, with armrests as high as the back, which itself was higher than that of any sofa John had ever sat on. The armrests also had mirrors set into them, which would allow the person sitting there to see more of the room without being seen themselves.

For John, as he had a direct view into the couch from where he was standing, the occupant of the chair was completely visible. A tall man – for that much was obvious even though he was sitting down – was regarding him with a patient but analysing gaze, his hands folded calmly on his knee, suit undoubtedly expensive and thinning auburn hair impeccably arranged.

"Dr Watson," the man said. "Do please sit down."

"I'd rather stand," John answered reflexively.

"This may take a while, and I assure you that this sofa is extremely comfortable."

John considered this and decided that there was no harm in sitting down, as the other man was sitting as well and so John wouldn't be put into an inferior position. In fact, standing there like this felt rather like he was reporting to his superior officer. So he gave a small nod of acknowledgment and sat down.

The sofa was comfortable but John wasn't. The man, obviously aware of this, took a sip of tea, then replaced his cup on the side table and regarded him silently.

"It would help if you told me what was going on," John pointed out.

The man looked at the ceiling for a moment, apparently collecting his thoughts, then started speaking. "You are undoubtedly aware of the military situation we are currently facing."

"Seeing as I'm an army doctor, you could say that," John agreed and received a silencing look for it.

"Currently, the battlegrounds are restricted to only three small spots in the whole galaxy, with tensions rising in another three sectors. At this point, neither party is willing to enter into an outright war and has therefore observed the border-lines, not entering the neutral zones either."

John's eyebrows drew together. "Yes, so..?"

The man's voice grew more forceful. "Now that situation has changed. The aliens, as everyone is so fond of calling them, are accusing us of having set foot on M27, although at this point it is unclear why this causes them such great worry and, in turn, aggression. We, as you of course know, claim that they were the ones to go there first, a fact that, strangely enough, seems to have made your superiors think we were forced to follow immediately. And amid all these very strange goings-on and open questions, there is only one person who made it out of the battle alive, and who was then rescued from M27 under incredibly lucky circumstances, with emphasis on the word 'incredibly'."

Everything suddenly became clear. "You're suspecting me of having had a hand in planning the whole thing!" John exclaimed incredulously.

The man gave him another look. "Wouldn't you if you were in my position?"

John huffed out a breath. "I don't know what your position is. Hell, I don't even know your name!"

"Dr Watson, I just listed all the facts. What conclusion did you expect me to draw? And now that you are on board this ship, you are getting chummy with a man no one ever gets chummy with, Sherlock Holmes. To what end? Your whole behaviour has been highly suspicious."

John was reeling from what he was hearing. He hadn't even considered that he might be held responsible for the whole thing. "So, um, what are you going to do now? What's going to happen to me?"

Smiling slightly, the man leaned back in his seat. "Nothing. If I may give you a word of advice though: It would be in everyone's best interests if you and Sherlock managed to solve the case sooner rather than later – preferably before either party declares war, and before I am forced to have you arrested. Whatever you're most keen on to avoid."

Now John was confused. "So you don't think I had anything to do with it?"

The man chuckled and got up. "Have Anthea show you out. And give my best to Sherlock," he said, and then he had left the room, where John was still trying to comprehend what had just happened.

…

That night, John slept rather fitfully – again. As expected, the nightmares returned, and, considering that the conversation with the mystery man had kept him awake for an hour after he'd gone to bed, he'd slept a ridiculously small amount of time. It was starting to wear on him, and, as he made his way to the canteen for a cup of coffee, he decided that he should take Sherlock up on his offer. If it didn't work out, he could still move back to his lonely, noisy cabin. Now there was a cheerful thought.

Entirely unsurprisingly, Sherlock was already at the canteen. Upon seeing John enter, he folded his computer back to its original shape and slipped it into his pocket.

"Slept well?" he asked, sounding way too amused for someone who already knew the answer.

John placed his coffee and pain au chocolat on the table and sat down. "What's it look like?" he asked ironically, taking a sip from his cup. "What have you been up to since yesterday?"

"I've been researching information about M27," he said, sounding annoyed. "There is regrettably little to be found. I may need to consider the problem from a wholly different angle."

John's thoughts immediately went to the angle the mystery man had suggested, and took a moment to worry that Sherlock might come to the conclusion that he, John, had any kind of hidden agenda. "What did you find out?" he asked instead of voicing his concern.

"The place is just a big piece of rock, with some minor caves and not much else. If anything ever happened there, it's being kept under wraps, so unless we want to break into the database and get the records, it's useless to us." Sherlock shot John a look that said 'and don't think breaking in isn't an option, in fact it'll probably be fun'.

John sighed into his coffee. "Let's try this the legal way first. The records are likely to be empty anyway."

Sherlock had zoned out a bit and was regarding John absently. John took a bite of his pain au chocolat, feeling distinctly awkward.

Abruptly, Sherlock spoke up. "Finish your breakfast and then we'll get you moved in."

John did a double take. He should really be used to this by now. "How?" he asked, coughing weakly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You didn't sleep well. We get along well enough, and you've been told I usually prefer to be left alone, from which you concluded that my invitation must have been an honest one. You don't like living alone and your cabin is noisy. Moving in with me is the only logical conclusion. There simply are no downsides to it." John stared at him. Sherlock amended, "Well, maybe some. Let's not get too hung up on the details."

…

They went downstairs and retrieved the few things John had had with him when he'd arrived on board as well as the clothes he'd been given. When they got to Sherlock's apartment (the word cabin just didn't do the place justice), Sherlock quickly opened the drawer of one of the cupboards.

"Here, I even made room for your things."

"Thanks, that was very thoughtful of you," John said, honestly surprised.

Sherlock watched as he put his clothes inside the drawer. "If I'm one thing, it's thoughtful. Except not in the usual definition of the word."

Chuckling, John closed the drawer and straightened. "So... where's that spare bed you were talking about?"

"Hm?" Sherlock looked at him in confusion. "Oh, that. Right. This is the bed I was talking about," he said, pointing at the double bed at the centre of the room. John had spotted it immediately when he'd entered the room for the first time.

Perplexed, he said, "That's the spare one? Where's your normal bed, then?"

"That's mine," Sherlock answered, once again pointing at the double bed at the centre of the room.

John swallowed, looked up at Sherlock, then back towards the bed. "So when you said you had a spare bed, you really meant you had half a spare bed?"

Sherlock spun to look at him. "What?"

"Because no offense, Sherlock, but I'd rather not sleep in a bed with you."

"Why ever not?" John started to answer but Sherlock carried on talking. "No matter. This is simply a misunderstanding. I don't sleep a lot, and what little sleep I do need I usually get on the sofa or during the day."

"Sherlock..." John said, looking up at him. "Are you sure that's okay?"

"Of course I'm sure. I said so, didn't I?" Sherlock said, eyebrows drawing together.

"It's just... This is your bed. I don't want you to have to give it up for a stranger."

With an exasperated huff, Sherlock turned and stalked away. "We've been over this, haven't we? I told you I wanted you to be here – although if you continue asking such inane questions, I may have to rethink that. Now calm down, take a seat, and tell me about your meeting with Mycroft."

John plopped down on the sofa. "You know him, then?"

Sherlock stopped pacing for a moment. "You could say so. Now hurry up and tell me what he said."

But John couldn't help but feel nervous about telling him. Now that he had it, he wasn't willing to give up that bed and whatever it stood for.

"John," Sherlock said imploringly.

"Alright, alright. He told me all the evidence suggests that I'm one of the perpetrators."

Sherlock fixed him with an intent look. "Did he threaten to have you arrested?"

John shook his head. "I'd say he warned me he'd have to arrest me if we don't solve the case quickly enough."

"Good, that's good," Sherlock said, turning away again. "Not even Mycroft could have drawn such a ridiculously wrong conclusion." Then he stopped short. "Wait. Did he say he wanted us to solve the case together?"

John shrugged. "Not in as many words, but yes, he did."

Sherlock sat down next to John. "God, I despise him," he said, apparently talking to himself.

"Care to tell me who he is?"

Sherlock contemplated it for a moment, then shrugged. "Why not. He occupies what he likes to call a minor position in the government."

John could deduce for himself that that had to be an understatement if there ever was one. "So he's the reason for this whole voyage?"

Sherlock nodded. "He's also my brother."

That stopped John's thoughts in their tracks. He looked at Sherlock and burst out laughing.

Sherlock seemed confused for a moment, then scowled. "That's not a laughing matter," he said, which only made John laugh more.

"It just explains so much!" he wheezed out.

Sherlock's mouth quirked ever so slightly. "See if I ever invite you to my room again after this."

John flushed and hoped Sherlock would blame it on his laughter. "I'll have to ask Mycroft, then! I bet he's got a free sofa I could kip on."

Sherlock turned towards him. "You wouldn't!" he exclaimed incredulously, which set John off again. Sherlock watched him, and bit by bit his expression transformed into a smile.


	5. Chapter 5

John spent the rest of the afternoon drinking tea on the sofa and attempting to read – in vain, it turned out. His thoughts (and eyes) kept wandering back to Sherlock's bed. And that's what it was, wasn't it, Sherlock's, not John's, and Sherlock, whether he believed it or not, needed sleep like every human being did. And even if he did sleep, say, five hours on the couch, that couldn't be comfortable in the long run. Maybe John could ask Sherlock's brother to give them a second bed. It seemed more than likely that he'd have a spare one.

And if not... the bed was easily wide enough for two people. Unless that would make Sherlock feel uncomfortable. Then John would just have to move back to his cabin.

The only thing that really distracted John from this distraction was Sherlock himself. Sometimes, when typing at his computer, he would suddenly shout out a loud 'YES!' or mutter a quiet 'damn', which always led to John asking what had happened and Sherlock explaining some obscure chemical experiment with excitement or frustration. Sometimes Sherlock would get up to perform a small experiment in his lab, and that always made John tense up a bit, because the first time Sherlock had done that there had been a worryingly loud 'pop' to be heard and the second time the room had started smelling weirdly like gravy.

Needless to say, between John's bed anxiety and the constant threat of a chemical emergency, it was quite the cosy afternoon.

When John put his book away and stretched, Sherlock's gaze snapped to him. A tiny frown formed, followed by realisation.

"Oh... you're going to the pub with Lestrade and his gang of monkey-people." He continued with what he had been doing, apparently content to let John go through with this terrible idea.

John laughed. "Why don't you come along? Raise the IQ of the operation a bit."

Sherlock scoffed. "There's a reason no one ever invites me along. I'm terrible company for an evening at the pub, and my time is better spent elsewhere."

John walked over to where Sherlock sat and crossed his arms. "You mean doing what you have been doing all afternoon? Because to me it looked like you were working on stone-cold cases while getting nowhere with the mystery at hand. If the solution really is as simple as you think, a little relaxation might just be the thing to help you find it." When Sherlock hesitated, he added, "I'd like it if you came along."

Sherlock coughed, looking away. "Yes, ah. I think you've made that rather clear. I guess I could, just this once..."

John beamed. "Come on, let's head to the canteen. It's quarter past seven already, and I at least want to get something into my stomach. Always a good idea before going to the pub."

"That wasn't part of our deal," Sherlock protested, but followed John out the door nonetheless.

…

John had lasagne for dinner, Sherlock had a scone. John had already noticed Sherlock didn't eat all that much, but it spoke to how inexperienced he must be at preparing for a night at the pub that he didn't eat at least a bit more than that. John decided not to mention it. Some experiences you had to make for yourself.

Donovan and Lestrade entered the canteen at five to eight, having been held up on the bridge. After they, too, had eaten, the four of them finally made their way down to the pub.

And that pub was nothing like what John was used to, although he should have perhaps expected that. It seemed like a sleek modern club, all white surfaces back-lit with blue, pink and green light, the bar in one corner and the rest of the room moderately crowded. John turned to look at Sherlock, but he appeared to be busy eyeing everything with distaste.

Hectic movement at the far side of the room caught his attention, and he saw Mike Stamford wave them over to a round empty table.

"I didn't know you were coming!" John greeted him.

"And I didn't know you were, yet here we both are," Mike laughed, gesturing for the four of them to sit down. Sherlock looked haughtily amused, apparently doing his best to show how unimpressed he was with their little exchange.

When they'd sat down, John elbowed Sherlock, murmuring, "Give the whole thing a chance, why don't you."

Sherlock scowled. "I shall endeavour to try, but it is most unlikely that I will have fun."

John broke into his first fit of giggles of the evening, only gasping out that he wanted a pint of whatever beer was most popular when Lestrade went to get their drinks. Sherlock's scowl deepened.

When they were all settled and sipping their drinks, Lestrade asked, "So, did you move in with Sherlock then?"

"Yes, I did, actually."

Donovan let her head fall to the table. "I fucking told you not to," she said, sound muffled by her arms.

"And yet he did. It's almost as if he can make his own decisions," Sherlock shot back. John let out another giggle.

The evening continued rather uneventfully. One and a half hours later, John had had two pints and was feeling pleasantly relaxed. Sherlock, meanwhile, was looking at his still-full second pint with a look of intense concentration.

"Are you alright?" John asked him.

Sherlock looked up, startled. "Yes! Yes, just thinking."

"That's not entirely unusual," John said. "What about?"

Sherlock frowned. "Beer."

John laughed. "You don't have to drink it if you think it'd be smarter to stop."

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course it'd be smarter to stop. It's alcohol."

"I mostly just don't want you to vomit, that's all."

Sherlock blinked slowly at him. "Thank you. How kind."

Sally snorted. (John had been a bit unsure before, but now they were definitely all on first name basis.) "At least you don't have to worry about him making any untoward advances."

The table suddenly fell silent. Mike coughed. "Sally... that's hardly..." but Sherlock interrupted him.

"No, she's right. It's not one of my areas of interest."

As this did nothing to lighten the mood, Mike spoke up again. "So many different sexualities, aren't there. Well, not everyone can be as, shall we say, active as our friend John 'Three Galaxies' Watson!"

Greg looked at John with impressed amusement. "What, really? Three galaxies?"

John leaned back in his chair. "I got around as a student, I must admit," he said, not without satisfaction.

"Oh come on, John, that's barely eight years ago!" Mike said jovially. "No doubt you've still got it."

"I don't know," John appeased. "I haven't tried in ages."

But now everyone was looking at him curiously, even Sherlock's interest seemed piqued for some reason. It was making John nervous.

"I've got an idea," Greg proclaimed. "Prove your powers by scoring a free drink from one of the barkeepers."

John took a deep breath and... stood up. "Any preferences? Beer, cocktail?"

"You talk big. Just get the fucking drink," Greg laughed.

Okay then. John straightened his posture and put a slight smile on his lips. Ready for battle. As he approached, he let his gaze roam over the barkeeper who seemed to be responsible for the emptiest corner of the bar. A man, thirty-ish, face rough with stubble, wearing a plain brown shirt, a dish towel slung over one shoulder. His movements were confident, so he wasn't new to the job. Now if only John knew how he could use that to his advantage.

He sat down on a bar stool and half-turned towards the room. When the barkeeper stood close enough, he addressed him. "Busy night?"

The man startled slightly and leaned toward John on the bar. "You should see the weekends," he said in a deep, smooth voice.

John smiled. "I will. Haven't been here before, but it seems like a nice enough place..." He winked.

The man's lips quirked. "You the new one, then?" he asked.

"Yep. Fresh in from outer space reporting for duty," John said in his best mock-military voice.

He got a snort of laughter for his efforts. "Must have been shit though, being the only one left."

John shrugged with one shoulder. "Yeah. Pretty shit." He looked away briefly.

"And you don't know anybody on board?" the man inquired.

"Oh, I know one person. We went to university together. But we're not close," he was quick to add. This was going extremely well, and he had hardly had to do anything.

The barkeeper smirked. "Must be pretty lonely, then." He extended his hand. "The name's Steve."

John took the hand, the contact warm and pleasant. Steve's thumb rubbed circles against his hands, and when he let go, John did feel a little bereft. He really hadn't had much... physical contact lately.

"John," he responded belatedly. Steve laughed and picked up a glass to polish.

"You know," he said. "You really should come by more often. Would make my job a lot more fun."

John felt himself blush, and that was a bit much. He was supposed to talk this guy into giving him a free drink, not get himself laid within fifteen minutes or something. "Do you work here every day?"

"Most nights, yes, but I also do a few hours in the engine room."

John raised his eyebrows. "After working the night? That sounds..."

"Exhausting? It is. I've been thinking about applying for a promotion so I can stop working here at the pub, but to be completely honest, I'm not sure I've got the right skill set to do the job." He shrugged and set the last glass down.

John smiled and motioned toward himself. "Come closer," he said. Steve leaned closer.

"A bit more," John encouraged. When Steve was just a few centimetres away, John leaned forward and put his mouth next to Steve's ear. He puffed a warm breath against the sensitive skin and smirked when he saw Steve shiver slightly. Then he began speaking in a low voice suffused with warmth.

"This is what I've always done in cases like this. Send the application. They'll accept it and then you'll have no choice but to do the job. And you'll do it brilliantly. I can tell." And then, because he couldn't resist, he pressed his open mouth against Steve's ear, where he could feel his own hot breath reflected back to him. He gave the ear a quick flicker of tongue and then pulled back, satisfied to see Steve's face had flushed.

Steve cleared his throat. "Thanks," he said huskily.

John gave him his sweetest smile. "You're very welcome." Then he made a show of looking at his communicator for the time. "Christ, I can't believe how much time has passed. I'm here with a few other people. I needed a break and told them I was just getting a drink."

"Well, what would you like?" Steve asked, winking.

"A Marsian Mojito... but... you're not trying to give me one for free, are you? Because I won't accept it," John assured, face serious.

"Oh, you'd better! I don't give out free drinks to just anyone." He grinned, beginning to mix the cocktail.

John watched his movements and again had to admire the confidence with which he poured and mixed the drink. In a matter of moments he was finished and set the glass down in front of John. "One more second," he said and scribbled something on a napkin. When he put it down next to the drink, John could see it was his communicator number.

"Text me some time," Steve said and gave John's cheek a quick peck.

"Thanks, I... I will," John said, and took his leave, stuffing the napkin into his trouser pocket and willing his flush to go down by the time he reached their table.

The group had naturally been watching the whole time, judging from their raised eyebrows and disbelieving faces. Sherlock had also turned a pleasing shade of red and was trying his hardest not to look at John. John sat down in his chair next to him.

"Christ, John!" exclaimed Greg. "We thought you were going to get to it right there on the bar! You were only supposed to get a drink, not eat his fucking ear!"

"I'm definitely impressed," Sally said. "But I wouldn't have thought you'd go for such a sweet cocktail."

"Oh, I do like one every once in a while," John said. "But this one's for Sherlock." He pushed it over to him. "I thought maybe the beer was too bitter for you."

Sherlock's gaze snapped to him, searching him for signs that he was mocking him. When he didn't find any, he hesitantly said, "Thank you. I'll give it a try."

John smiled warmly. "You're welcome."

"John," Sally spoke up. "What's up with that napkin he gave you? He didn't give you his com number, did he?"

John smirked and pulled out the napkin. "He absolutely did."

Mike laughed. "And are you going to call him?"

John shrugged, putting the thing away again. "I might. We'll see."

"He _is_ very fit," Greg argued.

"And he can supply you with endless free drinks," Sally added.

John nodded thoughtfully. "Too true."

Sherlock took a big gulp of his drink and didn't look at anyone.


	6. Chapter 6

**I'm afraid this is as far as I've written. The next chapter should be up in a week!**

As the evening wore on, each of them handled their drink in a way that bespoke varying degrees of practice. Greg, who had to work the next day, had restricted himself to two pints and was therefore in a cheerful mood, but generally on the sober side of things. Sally was leaning on the table and kept elbowing Greg in the side and patting his shoulder, a wide grin plastered on her face and a stream of anecdotes flowing from her mouth that made Greg groan and bury his face in his hands more than once. Mike's face was a bit flushed and he clutched his beer while smiling contentedly and listening to everyone else's chatter. John was slumped in his chair and was giggling quietly, having had a bit more to drink than he'd originally planned. His gaze was continually drawn to Sherlock, who had his arms crossed on the table and his head resting on them, and who tried his best to pout at everyone from underneath his messy curls, but couldn't prevent a smile from crossing his features every once in a while. Whenever that happened, John startled a bit and quickly looked away, taking a sip of his drink.

After the pint and the cocktail John had, errm, acquired for him, Sherlock had had two more cocktails and seemed rather drunk, though of course that would only really show once they stood up. John glanced at his own drink, a strawberry-flavoured cocktail he'd ordered on a whim but that turned out to be even sweeter than he'd imagined, and offered the half-full glass to Sherlock by tipping him on the shoulder and holding it out to him. Sherlock took it, heavy-lidded eyes fixed on John, and sucked on the straw for a long moment before releasing it and saying, "Thanks."

"No problem," John mumbled and turned towards the table, blushing. Sally was talking about how she'd had a friend over in a hotel room she shared with Philip (and who was that again?) and that said friend (a guy called Pete) had spilt an entire bottle of soy sauce into Philip's open suitcase while tripping and breaking his own nose in the process. Then Philip had returned and—

Sherlock shot upright. "Anderson!" he exclaimed, eyes wide.

"What about him?" John asked, at the same moment remembering that Anderson's first name was Philip and that the whole story had been about him.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair abruptly and crossed his arms, scowling. "He's an idiot."

The table broke down in giggles. John shook his head. "We should get you to bed. Come on, get up."

Sherlock stood up straight right away, only wobbling back and forth a tiny bit, and offered his arm to John. When that was met with a dubious look, he said, "Manners, John! Mycroft will have my head otherwise!"

John had doubts about that even in his somewhat drunken state, but refrained from voicing them and instead took the proffered arm, saluting Mike, Sally and Greg and marching out of the room side by side with Sherlock.

As they walked down the corridors, bumping into the walls and each other as Sherlock pulled him this direction and that, John asked, "So, how did you like it?"

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Not as bad as it could have been!" he proclaimed. "But still a waste of time. But thanks for the drink," he added, patting John's hand on his arm.

John huffed out a laugh and leaned his head against Sherlock's shoulder. "No problem. I did get that guy's number out of it."

At that Sherlock stopped abruptly, disentangled his arm from John's and instead put his hands on John's shoulders, facing him. "Do not call him," he warned, doing his best to enunciate that clearly.

John was reeling a bit, both from their changed position and Sherlock's intense gaze. "And... why exactly not?"

"He... he's a terrible person! Yes, he, um, doesn't wash his hands after going to the toilet." Sherlock nodded vigorously to underline his point.

"What, really? Won't be buying drinks from him again, then."

Sherlock looked to the left, then to the right, then leaned forward and whispered, "That was a lie. I invented that."

John frowned. "Okay... Why did you invent that, may I ask?"

Sherlock bit his lip, looking distraught. "Because... because you did this thing. Wait. This..." He leaned forward even further and fitted his mouth against John's ear and breathed hotly against it. Then, without removing his mouth, he whispered, "And I didn't like that. It's an ear, _John..._" And that _John _was so drawn out that John shivered. "My parents taught me that. Don't touch a stranger's ear. That's not good." Sherlock let his head drop to John's neck and his arms fall around him in a loose embrace. "I'm going to solve your case," he whined quietly. "Not him. No need to ask him."

John put his hands on Sherlock's back, feeling oddly insecure and warm. "I wasn't going to," he assured him. "I've already got the best detective on the case."

Sherlock jerked back. "Who?" he asked, wide-eyed.

John laughed. "You, you idiot! Come on, let's get you to your cabin," he said, offering Sherlock his arm.

Sherlock took it, looking mollified. "_Our_ cabin," he mumbled.

…

What John had forgotten, of course, was that Sherlock was in need of sleep now, and he was too, and there was still only one bed. Once they'd gotten ready for bed, there was no denying the problem anymore.

He sighed and started to move towards the sofa when Sherlock caught him by his sleeve.

"Wrong direction." When John started to object, he added, "I can take the sofa. I'm used to it."

John thought for a moment before refusing to care any longer. "The bed's big enough for both of us. Come on, let's just sleep."

For a moment it looked like Sherlock was going to disagree, but then he just shrugged and followed John to the bed.

When they'd both settled in, John felt completely awake again. When he looked at Sherlock, on the other hand, he was met with sleepy eyes and a contented smile.

"Beds _are_ comfortable," Sherlock murmured.

John giggled a bit and burrowed deeper into the covers. What a nice evening.

…

John woke up first. He was lying on his back but during the night had migrated towards the middle of the bed and was now lying rather close to Sherlock, albeit without touching him. This did mean that the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Sherlock's face, so close that he could just feel his breath on his skin. His hair was dishevelled, his mouth slightly open, and he looked so young and peaceful that John's chest ached.

After a moment, Sherlock's eyes blinked slowly open. John had to hold back a laugh at how sleepy he looked, when suddenly Sherlock's eyes widened.

"Anderson!" he exclaimed, sitting upright abruptly and rubbing his hands over his face. "How could I have not seen it?"

He got up and paced back and forth next to the bed. John watched him patiently, but after a few minutes felt that he had to ask.

"Is this about the case?"

Sherlock stopped and looked at him, seeming torn between continuing his pacing and explaining to John. He ended up throwing himself back on the bed, kneeling next to John, who was now sitting up.

"Anderson is responsible for planning our route," he said meaningfully.

John thought for a moment. "So?"

Sherlock widened his eyes in exasperation. "So he was the one who ensured we'd be close enough to M27 to pick up your signal. The route we took wasn't exactly a detour, but it was far from the obvious choice. As I said before, it wasn't a coincidence that we found you."

That made sense. Except—"Why would he do that though, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes gleamed. "That's where it gets interesting. I happen to know something about Anderson that he keeps secret from everyone." He waited a beat, enjoying the dramatic tension.

"Well?" John asked impatiently.

"He's only three quarters human."

John stared at him. "What."

Sherlock was grinning excitedly. "I don't know the exact circumstances, but it must have happened during the Central Administration unrests 65 years ago. His human grandmother got pregnant and went back to Earth to hide her child."

"But that's horrible!"

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know. According to Anderson, his grandfather came along and cared for her and the child."

John had mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, he didn't have particularly strong negative views of the aliens and had definitely never wanted any of their civilians to come to harm, but on the other hand... "Aren't there medical repercussions? I didn't even know interbreeding was possible."

"But it is. The species intermingled ages ago, we just don't like to think about it anymore. The government doesn't particularly want anyone to know about it either. And as you can see, it doesn't have any negative effects. Anderson isn't horribly deformed or impotent, and his stupidity is sadly typical of humans."

That was a lot to take in. John let himself sink down into the bed again, staring at the ceiling. After a moment, he asked, "How come you know about it? Anderson, that is."

Sherlock flopped down next to him, lying on his side. "I'd been along on a few tours, so I knew the crew. As you know, before every tour all the passengers including the crew have to hand in blood samples. Usually, with ships this size, the doctor takes everyone's sample one day and then does all the testing the next. Anderson, in a feat of uncharacteristic smartness, managed to switch his blood for someone else's every single time in the night between. But about a year ago, I happened to be in the lab and caught him doing it."

John looked over to him. "What were you doing in someone else's lab at night?"

Sherlock made a dismissive gesture. "I had to borrow their equipment. It's not important. Anderson came in, I deduced what I could, had a look at his blood, and he told me the rest."

John frowned. "So why is he still on board?"

"I kept it a secret, naturally. Anderson has many faults, but he's not responsible for these ridiculous regulations."

"But weren't you afraid he might have ulterior motives for wanting to be on board?"

"He said it was his dream job, which seemed a sensible enough reason to me."

They were silent for a few minutes, each of them thinking about what this meant for their case. In the end, John concluded, there were really only two options.

"Either he was actively involved in planning and executing the whole thing or someone else knows about his heritage and is pressuring him into cooperating."

Sherlock nodded in agreement. "I'm thinking the same thing."

"So how do we find out which one it is?"

"I don't see any reason not to confront him directly. I know the corners of the ship that aren't under surveillance, I know his secret, and if push comes to shove, Mycroft will be there to help."

John licked his lips. "It doesn't seem like a particularly smart idea, but if it's the only one we've got... We'll just have to jam his com signal so he can't tell his associates we know - if he really is involved."

"I'll just steal the damn thing. Anyway, it seems much more likely that he was pressured into it."

After a few moments in which neither of them spoke, Sherlock suddenly turned his face into the pillow with a groan. "I forgot about the hangover. John, do something about it!"

John got up to get Sherlock a glass of water, and through the turmoil of thoughts about Anderson's involvement marvelled at how comfortable he and Sherlock were with each other. Even sleeping in one bed hadn't been awkward at all, although maybe that was to blame on their drunken state at the time. They'd have to see about that.

As for the other events of yesterday evening... John shivered and did his best to think about something else. Anything else. It didn't seem like a very good idea to start fantasizing about the person who'd given you a quiet and comfortable sleeping place, who wanted to befriend you, and who expressly didn't participate in anything sex-related. It seemed like a better option not to think about it, and if he couldn't bear it any longer, he could always call Steve.

But later, as John got dressed for the day, the napkin with Steve's number on it was nowhere to be found.


	7. Chapter 7

**That took longer than I anticipated, but here it is: chapter 7! I hope you like it. **

Anderson's shift ended at noon, which was fortunate, as they had slept till ten and John was just able to have a comfortable breakfast before they positioned themselves in the corridor leading to Anderson's cabin. When the poor man passed by their hiding place – an alcove leading to a loo – Sherlock stepped forward and slung an arm over his shoulders.

"Anderson!" he exclaimed in his best imitation of joviality. John couldn't hold back a wince. "How have you been? Wonderful. If you'd come along?" And without waiting for a response, he turned him around and steered him towards the toilet door. John helpfully stepped out of the way and then followed them inside.

Anderson had started protesting already: "What are you doing? I just finished my shift, let me go to my room! I don't want to be part of one of your schemes..." _yadda yadda yadda_, John tuned out at some point. Only when they were both standing in front of him with their arms crossed did he stop and snap, "What?"

"You know what," Sherlock said. "Someone told you to change our route. Who was it?"

Anderson's eyes widened. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Stop lying, it doesn't work with me. We know someone discovered your secret and used it to pressure you into changing the route."

"... secret?"

"Oh, come off it," Sherlock said, annoyed. "Your grandpa was a Bachunter. Now answer my question."

Anderson's expression turned furious. "You said you wouldn't tell anyone!"

"It's okay," John assured him calmly. "I won't tell anyone else."

That left Anderson gaping, and Sherlock turned towards John with an odd little smile on his lips.

"You don't even realise that this sort of easy acceptance isn't the norm, do you? Years in the army, and yet you remain almost completely untouched by their prejudice. It's fascinating."

That was surprising, and certainly not something John had ever actively thought about. He coughed and looked away, warmth spreading through his body. "I—thank you."

Sherlock smirked and turned towards Anderson again. "No need to thank me, it was merely an honest observation. If anyone should be grateful, it's our dear Philip here. He doesn't seem to understand how lucky he is that we haven't told on him yet."

"Ok, ok!" Anderson relented. "I'm telling you. But if you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone..!"

Sherlock looked unimpressed. "Let me guess. Your family was threatened?"

"How do you always-?"

John frowned."That one was pretty obvious, you have to admit. You love your job, but I don't think you'd endanger the rest of the crew just to keep it, especially as you probably had no idea whether you'd be harmed as well. Has to be someone who isn't on board this ship and who'd also suffer if your secret was discovered. Ergo, your family."

Sherlock beamed. "Go ahead, Anderson. Tell us your story."

With a sigh, Anderson let himself slide down the tiles until he was sat with his back against them and his knees pulled up.

"I was at this pub called The Black Lion, down in Catullia. I was waiting for Sally, but she'd texted me that she'd be an hour late, so I'd already gotten myself a drink."

"Wonderful. Now get to the point."

Anderson glared. "So I was sitting there, with my drink, when someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around and it's a young girl, so young she shouldn't even have been allowed in there. I start asking whether something's wrong, but then she starts speaking. Her voice is all shaky and soft and I have to lean in to hear: 'He knows. He knows about your grandfather.' I was shocked, of course, and asked her who she was talking about, but she wouldn't answer. She just pressed a piece of paper into my hands and said, 'Do as he says and your family will remain unharmed.' And for a moment there was a red dot on her forehead, like from a sniper!" He paused.

"And then?" John prompted.

"She ran outside, and after a few seconds I followed her, but by then she'd already disappeared."

Sherlock gave a monstrous sigh and rubbed his hands over his face. "So what you're saying is that you know nothing."

"Hey!" Anderson protested.

"We only heard that it's someone who knows about your grandfather, and we knew that before we talked to you. The only thing we learned is that whoever is threatening you has a sniper at their disposal, which doesn't exactly narrow it down, and that the person claims to be male." Sherlock crossed his arms and pursed his lips. "I daresay you wasted our time."

"I didn't _ask_ to be interrogated!" Anderson sputtered incredulously. "_You_ dragged me here!"

"What I'd like to know," John interrupted, "is why you didn't suspect Sherlock. Seems like the obvious conclusion."

At that, Anderson's face turned sour. "Don't think I wouldn't have liked to just accuse him of that. But considering that I had zero evidence _and _would have had to reveal my secret, it seemed like the best option to keep quiet. My reasoning was that I'd be able to keep an eye on him on the ship, and that at the very least he wouldn't try to blow up the ship while he was on board himself." After a moment of silence he added, "And I didn't really think it was him. Why would he even attempt to remain anonymous? If he were to commit a crime, he'd go about it differently anyway."

The room was entirely silent for a minute. John thought it all sounded pretty reasonable from Anderson's point of view, but Sherlock's face had grown still. He was staring straight ahead, entirely expressionless. It was unsettling. John found it hard to swallow, wanted the moment to be over as quickly as possible, but didn't know what to do or say.

"Thank you for your input," Sherlock finally said. "But we must really be off. Come along, John." And with that he was out of the door.

Although John was quick to follow, it took him a moment to catch up to Sherlock, who had both the advantage of long legs and the motivation to get away from an obviously unpleasant situation as soon as possible.

"What is it?" John asked as soon as he was walking next to Sherlock, though he had an inkling of what might have been the problem.

Sherlock gave him no more than a disdainful side-glance. "Nothing."

Wonderful. Now it was up to John to clear this up. Just as Sherlock was opening the door to his cabin, he said, "I didn't mean to imply that I would have suspected you."

Sherlock stopped short and turned, leaving John to almost run into him. "But you would have. You said it was the obvious conclusion."

They were standing so close that John had to turn up his head to look Sherlock in the eyes. "I wouldn't have," he said earnestly. "I already know you too well for that."

Sherlock's mouth opened slightly, like he was about to say something. John tried to smile at this man who obviously had so little experience with having friends, but he could only manage the barest twitch of the corners of his mouth. The moment floated in the air for a few seconds, then Sherlock turned away abruptly, stalking into his room full of purpose.

"Sherlock?" John inquired.

"We've got investigating to do! We've wasted too much time already!"

John plopped down on the sofa and watched Sherlock pace the room. "And what do you suggest we do next?"

"Files!" Sherlock exclaimed triumphantly. "We're going to have a look at the files."

When more information didn't seem to be forthcoming, John asked, "What files?"

With a manic grin, Sherlock knelt on the sofa's armrest. "There is a room full of top-secret files on this ship. They only exist in paper form so no one can hack the system and access them."

"But surely they're well-protected?"

"That's where it gets good. The room has two entryways. One is via an elevator from Mycroft's cabin, the other is via an office in which a single secretary is positioned. And a guard. But let's ignore that part for a moment. You can't just enter the office, you've got to have special permission."

"Which you do?"

"Which I do. The secretary is an old family friend. Mummy insisted that I visit her regularly. Mycroft wasn't too happy about it, but in the end he always yields."

_Mummy._ John smiled. "And how do we get through to the files?"

Sherlock grinned and walked over to the cupboard. "Don't worry about that part. Let me just get changed and we can get going."

As John watched him rummage through the drawers, it struck him that although they had known each other for a relatively short time, they were as comfortable with each other as if they'd been friends for years. It also seemed like John's opinion mattered to Sherlock, and that Sherlock enjoyed spending time with him. John didn't mind that at all. They'd see whether their sleeping arrangement would work out tonight, but he desperately wished for it to. It wasn't just that John needed a friend after what had happened – it was much more Sherlock-specific than that. John hadn't known it was possible for someone to be so magnetic, so fascinating. He decided not to think about what would happen once they arrived at their destination.

Of course Sherlock also had his bad sides. He was easily hurt when John made a careless comment. He had seemed almost jealous of the barkeeper.

John's heart, startled by the thought, skipped a beat. Shaken out of his reverie, he lifted his gaze to see that Sherlock had almost finished doing up the buttons of his shirt. Sherlock gave a little nod to indicate he was ready, and John got up, clearing his throat.

"So... is there anything I should know about this family friend?"

Sherlock hmmed as he walked out the door. "Not really. Her name is Mrs. Hudson, she's got problems with her hip, you should be nice to her or be prepared to face the wrath of the whole Holmes family."

John slowed his steps. "That doesn't sound intimidating at all. Are you sure I should come? How am I going to get in anyway?"

Sherlock put an arm around John's back, dragging him along. "You're the reason I'm going to give her for coming. I want to introduce you to her."

"Introduce me?"

"Oh, don't worry about it. We won't stay long. We've been idle for too long."

"I'm still a bit sketchy on the details of our plan, actually. Would you mind telling me?"

Sherlock steered them through the corridors without a second thought. "Hm. Yes, I would."

"I hope you're not just making this up as you go along," John said, but didn't really feel it. With Sherlock by his side, he felt more than ready for a bit of adventure.

...

Mrs. Hudson greeted them with a huge beaming smile and sprang up from her chair to hug Sherlock. Whatever problems she had with her hip, she didn't seem to be bothered by it right then.

She immediately endeared herself to John by patting Sherlock's cheek reprovingly. "Oh Sherlock, whatever took you so long? It's been two weeks! Don't think I haven't told your mother!"

Sherlock extracted himself from her grip with a somewhat pained smile. "Mrs. Hudson, I would like to introduce you to my new friend John Watson."

At those words, her eyes started to glow. "It's a pleasure, Mr. Watson," she said, shaking his hand.

"_Doctor_ Watson," Sherlock interjected.

"John is fine, actually," John said with a smile.

"John, then," Mrs. Hudson agreed, but didn't offer her own first name in turn. Seeing as even Sherlock called her Mrs. Hudson, that didn't worry John overly much. "Do have a seat and tell me how you two met."

When they were all settled – Mrs. Hudson on her office chair and Sherlock and John on the visitor chairs, which they'd been made to carry to Mrs. Hudson's side of the table so they could all sit next to each other – they answered her question in detail. She listened with rapt attention, but seemed keen on proceeding to the next topic on her list.

"And how has it been so far, living together?"

"I only moved in yesterday," John answered, bemused.

"Has Sherlock been treating you well? He can be terribly rude, but I've never seen what he's like when he's in love."

John's eyes widened and he was about to protest that no, that wasn't what was going on at all, but then Sherlock shot him a sharp look and it became clear that their cover story _was _going to be this.

"I've got no cause for complaint," John said, smiling his best fake smile. "Not sure the same can be said for the crew though."

"Is that true?" Mrs. Hudson asked Sherlock, who wasn't showing even the barest signs of contrition. "Mycroft won't be pleased, you know."

"If anything, that's an incentive," Sherlock grumbled. "Mrs. Hudson, you wouldn't by any chance happen to have some biscuits for John? He hasn't had lunch."

There was an odd beat of silence in which Sherlock sent Mrs. Hudson an imploring look. Then she sprung into action. With an exclamation of, "Oh, how remiss of me! Of course I've got biscuits for you, love!" she pulled open the topmost drawer and took out a tin of biscuits. Just before the drawer snapped closed again, John spotted a small piece of paper that must have been hidden underneath the tin and on which a sequence of at least eight numbers was written in a tidy script.

Mrs. Hudson opened the tin and offered it to John with a somewhat strained smile. When he'd taken one, she said, "And tea, you need tea. I'm such a bad host, I'm sorry." Looking over her shoulder down the corridor leading to the room full of secret files, she called, "Marco? Would you come over here and make us a cup of tea?" There was no answer, but heavy footsteps could be heard drawing closer.

"So sorry, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock interjected. "We really must be going. We've got a case."

Her eyes widened in (mock) surprise. "What, on the ship? Well, no matter. I'll just have a cup with Marco, then. He is such a dear boy."

John looked from one to the other and wondered at the fact that this ridiculous plan was really going to work.


End file.
